Merry Christmas, Dr Watson
by sdrawkcabemdaer5
Summary: A companion piece to "Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock doesn't know what to get John for Christmas. friendship/pre-slash/fluff.


Hi guys! This is a companion piece I wrote to a fic I posted a few weeks back, called "Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes." But you don't necessarily need to read that to understand this. It's not a sequel, more like parallel events from Sherlock's pov, though it ends earlier. I didn't intend to do any more with this story, but my brain had other ideas, apparently.

Still a bit early for Christmas fic, but I couldn't resist.

Feedback is loved and adored!

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Christmas was fast approaching. Even if John didn't drop hints every couple of days, Sherlock still would have known. He couldn't escape it, it was everywhere he looked: on the telly, on billboards, in the newspapers and magazines. Everywhere he looked he was bombarded with red and green and fake snow. It was almost insufferable.

Most years Sherlock spent Christmas like any other day. The criminals didn't take a holiday, and neither did he. Usually Mycroft would make some sort of obligatory gesture, a phone call, or worse, a surprise visit. But Sherlock didn't observe any of the religious rituals, and all of the other social traditions were just trite nonsense.

But not this year. This year he was spending Christmas with John Watson. John didn't seem to be overly enthusiastic about the holidays. At least he didn't own any cheesy Reindeer or Christmas tree jumpers like Mrs. Hudson. Instead he merely seemed determined that they should enjoy a subdued day of rest together. Which, honestly, was perfectly alright with Sherlock. One quiet day together might actually be nice.

But now that he was actually celebrating Christmas, Sherlock realized with dismay that this meant participating in some of the more unavoidable traditions. Particularly gift giving. He knew John wouldn't forget that tradition. He was the kind of person who liked to make others happy. Undoubtedly he would be choosing gifts for everyone they knew, even Lestrade and Molly would probably receive some small token. And Sherlock knew without a doubt that he would put both of their names on the gift, even though everyone would know who it was really from.

So Sherlock was left with the dilemma of finding a gift for John. Even for a genius, it was more difficult than it might seem. Sherlock had been living with John for months now. He knew all his habits so well it was like he had John down to a science. He knew what and when John ate, how he took his tea, every outfit he had worn for the last month, the books he had read, the websites he visited, even the brands of personal care products he used. But none of his keen observations were proving of much use in this instance. He decided to double his John-watching efforts.

He had long ago noticed that John enjoyed knitted wool jumpers that on anyone else would have looked ridiculous, but somehow on John managed to look positively right. Sherlock toyed with the idea of buying him a new one, but quickly dismissed it. He had no sense of taste at all when it came to knits, since he would never be caught dead in them himself.

John liked to read. Books were perfectly sensible gifts. Useful, educational. But most of what John read on a regular basis were either medical journals or atrocious political thrillers that Sherlock grimaced at whenever he saw them lying on the coffee table. As if their life wasn't exciting enough. If he wanted political intrigue all he had to do was hang around Mycroft for a day or two. Sherlock shuddered at the thought.

Tea was obviously one of John's favorite things. The man drank tea like it was the blood pumping through his veins and if he didn't replenish it often enough he might dry up and die. But they already had a perfectly sound kettle, and mugs and saucers and all the other necessary accoutrements. And John was a no-frills, disposable tea bag sort of man, so any sort of fancy china set would be less than useless.

Sherlock felt like there was something he was missing. He watched the advertisements on the telly with particular focus. Most of them featured men giving jewelry or perfume or expensive brand name goods to beautiful young women, followed inevitably by kissing or hugging or some other display of faked affection. But John was not a woman, and Sherlock was almost positive he did not want a gold necklace or diamond ring.

Sherlock was becoming fed up with the whole thing. Why was gift giving so damn difficult? Why did nothing he came up with seem right? He almost resorted to asking John point blank what he would like Sherlock to buy for him. He wasn't even sure what stopped him from doing so. But for some reason it seemed like one of those things John would call "a bit not good." Sherlock knew that this was supposed to be something personal that one did on one's own, with the proper intentions and feelings. But knowing that didn't make it any easier.

In his exasperation he had done what normal people seemed to do in this situation: he went to the shopping center. He reasoned that amongst the endless array of shops and goods there had to be _something_ that would pass as tolerable.

The first store he entered was a large, generic department store. The sheer number of departments guaranteed that he would have plenty of options. He wandered aimlessly into the sporting goods area, feeling self-consciously out of place amongst all the other shoppers who seemed to know exactly what they were doing. Apparently he looked as out of place as he felt, because almost immediately a young woman with a name tag approached him.

"Can I help you find anything?" she asked with a big, fake, service-industry smile.

Sherlock considered for a moment. An outside perspective may not be a bad idea, though this girl didn't seem to be the most astute person in the world.

"I am looking for a gift," he began, and she instantly started nodding in a sympathetic way.

"Yea, it is that time of the year, isn't it? Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Actually, I haven't the slightest clue." Sherlock's tone must have betrayed his uncertainty. She was nodding enthusiastically now, as if warming up to her task.

"Alright, well I can help you out. Tell me a little bit about the person you're shopping for. Is it a man or a woman?"

"A man," Sherlock replied.

"Alright, a family member, coworker, friend?"

Sherlock considered; John was more like a combination of all of those. But it didn't seem worthwhile to explain to this shop girl exactly what John Watson was to him. So he settled for "…flatmate."

"Tell me a little bit about him, then. What does he like, what does he do?"

These were the same questions Sherlock had already asked himself. But maybe the perspective of someone with more social experience than himself would be able to glean something relevant from those details that had seemed so useless before.

So he began. John was a doctor. John liked tea. John liked to watch vapid daytime telly though he pretended not to like it. John was an expert marksman. John liked Chinese food. John kept a blog that he spent far more time on than he would admit.

The girl was staring at him with a bewildered expression as he rattled off these details in quick succession. Sherlock wasn't sure why she looked so stupefied; she had asked for data, after all. She tried to cut him off, though he still had at least a dozen more facts to go.

"U-umm, that's enough, very good. Um, a blog, you said? Well, it sounds like your friend likes computers then. Why don't you try out the electronics department, alright? You can find someone over there if you need more help." She was pointing in the general direction of her left, and quickly backing away. "Good luck, uh, happy Christmas," she called as she beat a hasty retreat. Really, Sherlock thought, what an odd girl.

But he decided to take her advice. The electronics department was full of fascinating gadgets that he was just itching to take apart and examine. Some of the items were things they already owned, but in newer and fancier models. But Sherlock couldn't see any point in replacing anything that was perfectly functional. He stopped to consider the display of cameras and camcorders. He had never seen John show any artistic leanings, but then again it didn't mean that he _didn't_ like photography, either. Best not to make a guess with no data.

His wandering led him to the computer section. John already had a relatively new laptop, which he used quite frequently these days. Since he had started his 'blog' he spent an hour or two on it almost every night while they watched the telly together. Sherlock let his mind wander over those evenings fondly for a moment. It had become a tradition he found comforting in its very habitualness. The steady clacking of the keys; the way John bit his lip when he was trying to think of the right word, which Sherlock would supply without even looking at what he was typing; the way John grumbled whenever his fingers made a mistake.

Actually, he did that quite a bit. His fingers were large and the keypad on the laptop was small, a combination bound to create frustration. Sherlock's long slender fingers never had such difficulties, he mused.

Suddenly he realized: that was it. _That_ was what he could get for John! He searched around until his eyes fell on what he wanted: a display of accessories. He found the section of computer mice and began to look through them. He chose a nice sleek, wireless model, the very latest technology. John could use it while sitting on the couch, not disturbing their usual routine, but with more comfort and ease than before. It was perfect. Practical, durable, utilitarian.

He brought it to the registers where another young woman with a salesperson smile rung up his purchase.

"Would you like that gift-wrapped?" She asked sweetly.

"Wrapped? Whatever for? That seems terribly impractical. No, definitely not."

Her smile became tight, just like the girl before, and she finished the transaction silently, wishing him a terse happy Christmas. Really, Sherlock thought, there was something strange about women who worked in shops. He made a note to avoid them as much as possible in future.

But it didn't matter now. He had a gift for John, a gift he hoped he would enjoy. Sherlock set off for home, his step lighter than usual. A week suddenly seemed like a long time to wait, especially for a holiday he had never cared about before. But this year it would be a proper Christmas. His first Christmas with John.


End file.
